It's a "storycode" or "tag" used by internet story sites (like Grommet's Plaza)
to tell people who are thinking about reading a story bearing
said storycode/tag that the protagonist is a person of the
female persuasion (two X chromosomes) who likes to tie herself
up. "Solo-F." Same thing. I'll be frank, I have
been known to read such stories. Why? For
several reasons:

I've also been
known to indulge in such shenanigans from time to
time (meaning Sbf/Solo-F), but no more than once a week...
maybe twice

Stories can be a
good source of technical information, although truly
original ideas are few and far between;

Also, I find the
well-written ones fun to read, okay? Sue me.

I suppose an introduction is
in order. Hi, my name is
Anne. I'm in my twenties (but my precise age is none of
your business). I'm just over 5' 6", my hair is blond, my
eyes a very pretty and not all boring shade of brown, and my
features are cute, as in girlish, as in somewhat juvenile (or so
they tell me). I've learned to live with it. My
complexion is fair, as in pale, as in must-use-SPF-50. And
I suppose you should know I'm generally considered something of
a nerd. I wear glasses, I have a brain, and I'm not afraid
to use it (meaning the brain). In fact I've been told by
my teachers and supervisors that I'm "sharp as a tack."
I've learned to live with that too.

You want more details?

Measurements—34-25-30.

Bra size—34B.

Weight—110
lbs. (Okay, 114.)

Turn-ons—Self
bondage (but not obsessively), reading good books by the
fire, and long walks on the beach.

Turn-offs—Nosy
people who rudely demand personal information!

As for work, I'm a
bureaucrat, one of those dedicated public servants who keep the
proverbial gears of local government turning and make sure the
proverbial trains run on time. I won't tell you what
department I work for, but thank goodness it's not the
Assessment Office. That's where people go to rant about
their property taxes, as if whoever happens to be manning the
service counter that day is personally responsible for
the tax code. Those unfortunates put up with a lot of
grief and have the patience of saints (in my opinion).
Anyway...

I have a BS in Management from Lewis & Clark University (Go
Explorers!) and I like my job (believe it or not). A
certain satisfaction comes from understanding the ins and outs
of a complex system and making sure it functions properly,
especially if the system in question is something important,
like government. I'm saving to earn my MBA and become more
promotion-worthy, but work isn't what this is about. What
this is about has already been stated: self bondage.

My interest started in when I was very young. For some
mysterious reason, I developed a... shall we say...
appreciation of Damsels-in-Distress as depicted in
movies, television, and literature in general. Whenever a
female character found herself tied up as a hostage or kidnap
victim... I'd perk up (but not so my parents would notice, of
course). The same went for costume dramas with medieval
maidens chained in dungeons or horror movies with Female Victims
tied to chairs or tables. I always mentally edited out any
unhappy endings for the horror movie damsels in question.
I was there for the binding and gagging and helplessness, and
most definitely not for the gratuitous blood, gore, and
death. Yuk!

And then there were the Nancy Drew books and Kim Possible
cartoons. I found both of them to be very inspirational.
The usual totally undeveloped female characters written into
scripts solely for the purpose of giving the male lead someone
to rescue are boring. As set pieces, the damsels'
bound and gagged predicaments can be entertaining, but they, the
damsels in question, are boring. Nancy and Kim
were not boring. Nancy and Kim were role
models. They were pretty and smart and talented and
on occasion just happened to find themselves bound and
gagged in some dank basement, dusty attic, dilapidated shack,
decrepit old boat, etc., or bound and maybe gagged
and about to be subjected to Dr. Drakken's latest unspeakably
horrific and unnecessarily complicated deathtrap, respectively.
That's how I felt about it then, and that's how I feel
about it now.

So... being an only child, I had my own bedroom. At night
I experimented with scarves, elastic sports bandages, and the
odd lengths of rope. I was too chicken to try anything
truly elaborate (being terrified of one of my parental units
barging in and discovering their sweet young daughter tied up on
her bed and pleasuring myself). I always used just
enough bondage to allow me to snuggle under the covers
and have fun, but still be able to quickly free myself if one of
them knocked on my door.

During that period I learned there are limits on the game other
than those imposed by fear of discovery. I've already
mentioned my fair skin. Ropes tied too tightly often leave
rope-burns, and on more than one occasion I was forced to wear a
long-sleeve blouse or turtleneck to school on a day when a
sleeveless top would have been much more comfortable, all in
order to hide a pair of red wrists. Also, tight
cleave-gags can lead to, uh, gag-burns? That might not be
a recognized word, but it's definitely a thing. A red mark
in the corner of your mouth that isn't quite a bruise
can be explained away as a case of Advanced Pillow Face only so
many times without arousing suspicion.

Anyway, I survived high school and college without my secret
being discovered. And then... I was released into the
wild! Yippee!

I landed an internship at City Hall, which led to my current
job, which gave me the wherewithal to find a nice place to live,
where I settled in to refine my "hobby."

So, about my Secret Lair of Self-Bondage...

First of all, it isn't like that. I absolutely am not
obsessed with tying myself up.

Second of all, it's a cottage, not a lair. Specifically,
it's an authentic Greene and Greene bungalow situated at the end
of a quiet cul-de-sac in a nice neighborhood on the edge of
town. The cute little one-story structure (with full
basement and separate garage) is actually the "guest
house" of a much larger Greene and Greene structure that can
only be called a mansion. In fact, the bungalow's driveway
is actually a side turn off the grand driveway of
the aforementioned mansion. Both structures are surrounded
by towering cedars and the entire cul-de-sac, in turn, is
surrounded on three sides by a large City Park that's more an
urban forest with hiking trails than a giant green lawn
(although there is a nice dog-park and a picnic area,
with tables).

More about the mansion later.

Our bungalow is really nice. There were a lot of similar
single-family homes scattered about that part of town, built in
the first half of the 20th century. Most have settled into
traditional Arts & Crafts color schemes of various subdued
shades of green, brown, and other earth tones. The
bungalow and mansion are no exception. Both are dark brown
with redwood trim.

Yes, that's right, I said "our bungalow," which brings me to the
other reason it isn't my "Secret Lair of Self-Bondage."

I have a roommate... meaning a bungalow-mate.

Sbf

Chapter
1

Her name is
Logan, she's about my age and is very pretty.
She's also a hoot-and-a-half, as the saying goes, and I love her
a bunch.
Logan's stats:

Logan is a
looker. Really. She's undeniably beautiful, but her
gorgeousness is overpowered by her cuteness, if you know what I
mean. I've been told I suffer from the same unfortunate
condition. We're both adorable, and there's
nothing we can do about it. Life goes on.

Also, Logan is athletic, but without being a fanatic about
it. She runs, swims, hikes, goes to yoga class, and drags
me along for company. I appreciate it. Staying in
shape can be a challenge for somebody like me. I spend
most of my days with my butt planted in a comfy office chair and
crunching numbers, updating spreadsheets, writing memos, and/or
guesstimating budget proposals. I need to be
dragged away for exercise now and then, meaning on a regular
basis.

As for the hoot-and-a-half issue, Logan is a lot of fun
to have around. She's funny, smart, and witty. Also,
we share the same tastes in movies & TV, decor, food,
clothes, and she couldn't be a more considerate
bungalow-mate. Equitably sharing the grocery shopping,
cooking, laundry, and other housekeeping chores is never an
issue. I really like Logan, and consider myself supremely
lucky to have stumbled upon the listing for the bungalow.

As for Logan's employment... it's a little odd (in my politely
incurious opinion). She works for the owner of the
aforementioned neighboring mansion and spends the working hours
of her normal work week at said mansion. Needless to say,
Logan has a very short commute. We don't discuss
the details of what she actually does at the mansion (just as I
don't bore her with the ins and outs of how I personally resolve
the various bureaucratic dramas that threaten to bring down
municipal government), but I've come to suspect Logan is what
might be called an "executive maid." She plays some role
in keeping the mansion tidy, but mainly she's a companion and/or
secretary and/or troubleshooter for her employer, who (in
Logan's words) is a "nice lady."

By the way, the nice lady/employer in question is also our
landlord. I know her name—Kelly Travers—but we've never
actually met. I signed my lease at a real estate
management office and pay my rent via direct deposit. I've
seen her on the rare occasions she happens to be driving down
the driveway in her luxury SUV hybrid while I happen to be
gazing out the window. To tell the truth, I'm not even
sure what she looks like. Her SUV's side windows are
tinted. Logan says she's pretty, "super-nice," and "really
loaded." But then, Kelly Travers being loaded bit isn't
exactly a revelation. She lives in a mansion.

(Don't worry, you'll meet the nice lady in question. I'm
letting things play out in logical, chronological sequence...
like the municipal budget cycle.)

Anyway, Logan and I eat most of our bungalow meals together,
watch TV and/or movies in the living room, exercise, do chores,
etc. We share the main bathroom, but each have our own
bedrooms (with solid, locking doors), and Logan knows
absolutely nothing about what I do for entertainment after
we both retire to our respective bedrooms at night (or when
she's away).

So, I have secure and reliable privacy and adequate
(albeit modest) financial resources. For those reasons
I've long since moved on from makeshift self-binding materials
and invested in proper equipment.

It's time to discuss the technical aspects of my "hobby."

Sbf

Chapter
1

BONDAGE TOYS

Cuffs. I own four top-of-the-line bondage cuffs,
one pair for my wrists and a second for my ankles, all in black
leather with chrome hardware. The main cuffs are 2½" wide,
padded on the inside, and close by means of 1" outer straps with
slots and lockable buckles. I use dinky little steel
padlocks so when I'm playing I can't grope and fumble with my
desperate fingers and unbuckle the buckles. And I'm
talking small but real padlocks. (More about them
below.) The cuffs fit snugly and comfortably and have
hefty D-rings attached. I can tug on them for hours with
only a tiny bit of quickly fading redness on my wrists and/or
ankles to show for it.

Gag. I also own a top-of-the-line ball-gag.
The strap is black leather with chrome hardware (to match the
cuffs), with slots and a lockable buckle (also to match
the cuffs). The mouth-plugging sphere is medical-grade
silicon rubber, and after a lengthy internal debate I decided to
go with a "medium" (1¾") diameter in black, as opposed to the
traditional red. If I feel the need to augment my
damsel-silencer, I use a "flesh" colored elastic sports bandage
with Velcro closure, sometimes augmented by a folded scarf
placed over my already ball-gagged mouth. I never use
tape, not even hypoallergenic microfoam tape. Why take the
chance of skin irritation?

Collar. Yes, of course I use a
collar. Helplessness. It adds to the feeling.
Mine is what I call a semi-posture collar. It's
three-inches wide and allows a reasonable degree of head turning
and tilting. Full-blown posture collars are much wider
and much more restrictive. And yes, it's part of
my matching bondage ensemble with black leather, padding, chrome
hardware, a D-ring in front, and a lockable strap in the back.

Rope. I've long since retired my ratty old
collection of cotton clothesline and braided nylon and moved on
to 6mm, twisted ply, conditioned, natural hemp rope. The
good stuff. It's surprisingly expensive but worth it, in
my opinion. Various dyed colors are available, but I
decided to go with "natural." I almost went for black, but
all my leather stuff is black, red and blue didn't appeal to me,
so I went with natural. You can't go wrong with
natural. I have numerous 10ft, 15ft, and 30ft bundles, and
all the ends are whipped and sealed.

Cord. Toes are for tying, especially big toes.
Everybody knows that. I use 3mm nylon braided cord, and I
found a 100ft bundle in a shade of brown that more-or-less
matches my natural hemp rope. So far I've only used a few
18" lengths (all with heat-sealed ends). Most of the
bundle is safely squirreled away in my Rubbermaid plastic
storage box cleverly hidden in the back of my closet.

Chain. I don't use chain. I'd like to
use chain, but it might scratch the furniture and/or the
hardwood floor. Also, it clinks and clanks and Logan might
hear it. Our bedrooms are at opposite ends of the hallway
with the bathroom in between and our doors are pretty thick, but
I suppose its possible... maybe. So, no chain.

Padlocks. They aren't those flimsy, cheap luggage
locks you can spring open with a little effort. I had to
consult a locksmith, but eventually I found a source of keyed
alike, sturdy, steel, ¾"-wide-at-the-base padlocks. "Keyed
alike" means they all open with a single key. I own a
dozen of them. What's that you say? Padlocks also
clink and clank. They do, but not the way chains clink
and clank. Besides, what choice do I have?

That brings us to...

Sbf

Chapter
1

RELEASE-TIMERS

I started out using
variations of the classic "ice timer." The essential
elements are:

A small,
inconspicuous eye-bolt screwed into the rafter directly over
my bed.

A long length of
heavy string or thin cord. (I use 1.18mm braided nylon
"micro cord," in coyote-brown.)

The key needed to
unlock my cuffs, collar, and gag.

Some sort of
"attachment detail" frozen inside an ice cube.

The key dangles just
out of reach, the ice melts, and the key drops within the
helpless damsel's reach. The upside is psychological, the
"so near but so far" element. The downside is
technological and generally related to the "attachment
detail." And as the saying goes, the devil is in the
details.

The cord is coiled or folded, then frozen inside an ice cube.
Two problems: (1.) If the ice cube is directly overhead,
melt water drips onto the damsel and/or the mattress. A
single ice cube isn't much, but a wet spot is a wet spot.
This can be alleviated by dangling the key over the bed, but
locating the ice cube elsewhere. For example, one could
run the cord either diagonally away from the bed or
through a second eye-bolt screwed into a second rafter, then
down to the attachment point. Add a bowl under the
melting ice and the wet-spot problem is solved. (2.) Much
more seriously, no matter how careful the preparation, frozen
coils or folds of cord are unfrozen tangles waiting to
happen. Murphy's law. The chosen technique might
function flawlessly a thousand times, but one night—the ice will
melt, a tangle will happen, the dangling key will remain dangling,
and the helpless damsel will remain helpless.

The cord can be in cut into two pieces
with the ends frozen together inside the ice cube. A
logical refinement is something like a couple of large beads,
each tied to the end of a different cord to give the ice more
surface area to grip. That's pretty foolproof, but better
yet...

Buy one of those stainless steel "ice timers."
They're two close-fitting steel cylinders with a steel ring on
either end. The just-barely-smaller cylinder slides inside
the just-barely-larger, and usually there's a rod or rods, often
with drilled holes to increase the surface area and give the ice
more to grip. Fill the larger cylinder with water, slide
the cylinders together, and balance the now nested pair on the
appropriate end in the freezer. Wait for the water to
freeze. You attach one end to your key cord and the other
to something solid. The ice melts, the cylinders slide
apart, and the key drops. That's as foolproof as
it gets.

However, there's an additional problem with any kind of ice
timer: Logan. She'd wonder why I'm freezing weird steel
cylinder thingies in our kitchen freezer. The same goes
for cords in ice cube trays. And there's no way I'm gonna
buy a teeny-tiny freezer for my bedroom. Do they even make
teeny-tiny freezers?

Which leads us to...

Anne's Amazing Electromagnetic Timer Box System.
After a thorough search, I found the perfect electromagnetic
door latch, the perfect electronic timer, and (at Pier-1
Imports) a really pretty decorative wooden box of just the right
size. I then got all do-it-yourself with our limited
collection of hand and power tools and mounted the latch and
timer mechanisms inside the box (with the AC power cord dangling
out the back).

First, I carefully cut a slot in the box and mounted the latch
inside so its electromagnetic plate is flush with the front
surface. Next, I drilled a counter-sunk hole in a tiny
steel plate and screwed on a tiny eye-bolt. When the power
is OFF, the plate-and-eye-bolt are very weakly gripped by the
electromagnet and said grip is easily defeated by the pull of a
1lb fishing weight. When the power is ON, however, the
grip is strong. Even when I grab the
plate-and-eye-bolt and pull, I can't defeat the
electromagnet. Just to be clear, that means the failsafe
mode is power OFF, so a general power failure means the key
drops immediately.

Finding a suitable electronic timer was the hardest part.
Most inexpensive models function in "clock-mode," turning things
like table lamps on and off at preset times. I needed
something that also had a "stopwatch" function.
Most importantly, it had to be small enough to fit inside the
box already holding the latch mechanism. Finally, I found
one.

So... I dangle the key and fishing weight over the
bed. The cord passes through the eye-bolt in the rafter
directly overhead, across to a second eye-bolt in a second
rafter, then diagonally down to a convenient shelf of my Ikea
bookshelf system and the timer box. That leaves the key
tantalizingly hovering more than two feet beyond the reach of
the desperately struggling damsel on the bed (me), with the
fishing weight up near the ceiling. Also, I tied a large
wooden bead in the cord between the two eye-bolts. It's
too big to pass through the eye, so it acts as a stop.

I know this is complicated, and if I was at work I'd fire up
Powerpoint and make a stunningly artistic and compellingly
informative diagram. It has the proper tools (with
clipart). I'll do the best I can with a cleverly crafted
table.

EYE-BOLT

―
―

―

WOODEN

― ― ―
―

2ND

OVER BED

BEAD

EYE-BOLT

|

\

FISHING

\

TIMER

▬

WEIGHT

EYE-BOLT

110v AC

|

&
PLATE

BOX

KEY

TANTALIZING
EMPTY
SPACE

DAMSEL

ON THE BED

Darn I'm good! Anyway, that should be clear
enough.

Power ON—the key hovers over the bed, tantalizingly out
of the reach of the poor, pathetically struggling, bound and
gagged damsel.

Power OFF—the timer box releases the eye-boltand
plate, the fishing weight pulls it away from the box, the weight
and key drop, and wooden bead hits the eye-bolt over the bed and
stops the drop. The key is now within easy reach of
the damsel, but the weight is still hanging safely out of the
way.

Power failure—the key drops immediately. Foolproof!

That brings us to one of my typical sessions. To advance
the plot, I'll tell you about a particularly memorable session.

Sbf

Chapter
1

A PARTICULARLY MEMORABLE SESSION
FRIDAY
A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

Yes, it was a dark and
stormy night. Not a lot of rain, but the wind was really
blowing.

I don't do costumes. I know some people like struggling in
sexy lingerie, squeezing themselves into sweltering latex
outfits, or cosplaying Batgirl, Mrs. Peel, Uhura, Sailor Moon,
etc., but none of that appeals to me. Nothing appeals
to me, literally. My one and only costume of choice is my
"birthday suit," period. Tell me a damsel isn't at her
most helpless and vulnerable when she's naked. I dare
you! Would the shower scene from Hitchcock's Psycho be
such a cinematic icon if Janet Leigh had been trying on winter
coats in the dressing room of a Burlington Coat Factory?
Hah! End of discussion.

After my usual before-bed-toilette, I locked my bedroom
door, changed into my costume, and rigged my key drop system (as
described above). I set the timer for three hours.
Rigging myself was gonna take several minutes and I wanted
plenty of quality struggling time before the key dropped.
I then buckled on and padlocked my collar, followed by my wrist
cuffs, followed by my ball-gag. Having already decided
this would be one of my "bat-shit-crazy-with-the-rope nights," I
left the ankle cuffs in the closet and carried several bundles
of hemp to the bed. Also, a single 18" length of cord.

I was right about the rigging taking time. The only light
was from a weakly glowing, blue-green nightlight plugged into a
baseboard wall socket across the room, but I'm used to it and I
managed. Anyway...

I tied my big toes together with the cord, then used rope to
lash my ankles together. I then rigged a running
ladder-tie, binding my legs together every six inches from my
ankles all the way to my upper-thighs. All the bindings
were cinched and tight enough to dimple my skin. That
would discourage me from trying to flex my knees and/or fold my
legs. The toe-cord was also cinched, but it wasn't
especially tight and didn't need to be. A long time ago
I'd made the mistake of trying tight toe bondage.
Purple toes! Ow! I learned my lesson.

Next was a crotch-rope. It encircled my waist a few times
(tightly, like a mini-rope-corset), cleaved my butt-cheeks and
labia (tightly), and had strategically placed figure-8-knots in
the crotch-cleaving strand to "discourage" struggling. The
remaining and reasonably long free ends came together over my
bellybutton and were secured with a square-knot. One free
end I passed down through my top thigh-bonds, just below my now
hemp-cleaved crotch, back up to my waist-bonds, then down
again. I pulled out what little slack there was and tied a
tight knot. That left the other free end not tied to
anything, but I'd make use if it shortly.

It turns out it's possible to give yourself a reasonably tight
upper-body harness, complete with a shoulder-yoke to keep
anything from shifting upwards and with cinches between
your torso and upper-arms. Having plenty of rope to work
with, I added a crisscrossing "X" between my boobs, then passed
the remaining free end from the crotch-rope up and through the
"X", back down to my waist, pulled out the slack, and tied it
off. Now the harness was anchored down below and up
above. Also, all the knots, and I mean all the
knots, were somewhere in front.

One step remained. I squirmed and struggled and slid my
arms under the harness ropes until my hands were behind my back,
then fumbled for and found the open padlock I'd left lying on
the bed. I passed the padlock's shackle through the
D-rings of my wrist-cuffs, and—moment of truth—snapped it
closed.

There I was, naked, tightly bound from toes to shoulders, my
wrists cuffed and padlocked together behind my back, a cruel
collar padlocked around my neck (for no particular reason), and
a padlocked ball-gag stifling my pitiful, mewling moans of
terror. Actually, I was keeping most of my pitiful,
mewling moans to myself, but was making a little noise.
A little quiet noise. Anyway...

O, the poor damsel! Who will save her?

I wiggled and squirmed and rolled on the increasingly rumpled
covers. I'd done a really good job (if I do say so
myself). Everything was tight without being too
tight, all the knots were completely out of the reach of my
desperate, fluttering fingers, and I was really and truly helpless!

Good job Anne!

Time passed and my "efforts to escape" continued.
Unfortunately, freedom could only come at the cost of letting
that pesky crotch rope slide back and forth and stimulate my
increasingly moist pussy. I had no choice! It was a
price I had to pay if I was going to escape the tight and
cleverly tied ropes of... whatever villain or villainess had
kidnapped me, stripped me naked, tied me up, and was eventually
going to come back and do whatever they were going to do to me
for whatever reason!

More time passed, my struggles remained futile, and the sliding
crotch-knots continued becoming increasingly...
interesting. Very interesting. It happens
every time and there's nothing I can do about it!
I struggled and squirmed and struggled... and then... finally...
inevitably... I writhed in orgasm!

"MRRRPFH!"

To paraphrase Julius Caesar—I came, the crotch-rope sawed, and
the ropes continued to conquer.

"MRRRRMPFH!"

Imprudent? Yes, but I couldn't help screaming. No
worries. It's not like this was the first time
I'd ever screamed in ball-gagged ecstasy. Everything would
be just fine. It was well after our
bedtimes and more than enough time had passed for Logan
to be deep into REM sleep—behind her very solid bedroom
door—waaay down the hallway—the other side of my very
solid bedroom door. Everything would be just fine.